The Youngest Two Hear Cicadas

Tennessee: We are here, between trees, with the tempo of a rosary being strung in a queue of escalating beads— Carolina: It’s not quite the count in the countinghouse of my chest but the heart does make an awful attempt t: and a circle wherever it may be there was music coming on c: which though machinery-like moves not in cogs, and never springs, but waves through t: like wired applause for antic backstage buds on the pre-comeuppance buzz; but it fades c: but only after the chorus has pulsed t: it drops off with sudden decision, like fountain water gone dross c: or it reaches the furthest point the branch turns from us, and is for some arc fully quiet... t: until the roulette snaps its jaw and the choir’s circuit opens to one c: like a pigeon unhinged, its wings in sudden white-rumped ascent t: unopposed by iridescence c: unopposed by iridescence